Silly Season & A Murder

It’s been over a month now.

I am finding my feet and beginning to find routine.

Weekends are spent dreaming up excuses to leave the Kingdom to visit Bahrain and/or making the most of the sunshine and topping up my tan and vitamin D.

Last weekend, I joined a couple of colleagues from Riyadh who wanted to visit Bahrain. To be honest, I seem to be heading to Bahrain nearly every week. Whether to run an errand, collect a colleague from the airport or just because I bloody well can.

Friday was no different. A colleague had been out in Riyadh for four weeks and - like a proper Englishman - needed a proper breakfast. So we ended up in an American/Irish bar getting confused by the Thai staff who were dressed up to  celebrate St Patrick’s Day. It turns out that St Patricks Day is celebrated each month on the Saturday closest to the 17^th of the month. Given that this appears to be the Companies preferred Bahrain breakfast, (and lunch and dinner and drinking) venue I have a suspicion that this is something that I will be getting used to.

Looking back, this marks the first moment in the week where I began to feel as if all is not well with the World. As if everything is conspiring to confuse me.

The second time this happened was being directed to an article in The Independent newspaper by my Twitter feed that reviewed a single that has been released by Mike Read to promote and raise funds for UKIP back home.

The review noted the horrific nursery rhyme simplicity, stretched truths and an apparent fake Caribbean accent that has had a few people raising an eye brow and questioning whether it constituted racism.

As context, when I read it, I had just read a pretty obviously fake but quite thorough story about Banksy being arrested in Watford.

Was I missing something? Had I missed a decision to celebrate “April Fools day” twice a year?

I mean, breaking the article down, it all seemed like something to lift our satirical spirits after surviving March. A few of the appallingly bad lyrics were quoted. They seemed rushed and crass enough that I could imagine that they resulted from an editor giving an intern 30 seconds to write a brief side bar, with the then said sad soul composing it during a hasty coffee run and bowel evacuation. The Caribbean accent/racist discussion was just incidental to the story; just an obvious layer to pad it out. Dragging Mike Read into the scenario added credence to my logic process that this was a second wind up I had read in a five minute period. 

I mean… Mike Read? Come off it!

When I saw how they described Mike Read, I was utterly convinced that I was going to be no fool. The article described him as – amongst other things - a poet, song writer, and impresario.

This was the clincher. Absolute fake. Not falling for that. No way.

We all know that Mike Read was and is nothing but a great big cock.

He was hopelessly safe in the 1980’s where he disappointed a generation who had been getting excited by Swap Shop and Tiswas by making Saturday mornings less exciting than before. The only saving grace of Saturday Superstore were Sarah Greene’s legs. Mike Read was on the radio before you went to school. Not like John Peel who was on the radio when you were supposed to be going to sleep. Mike Read got “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood banned. Richard Skinner, Kid Jenson and Janice Long played Jesus & Mary Chain. Mike Read appeared on Saturday teatime telly where your mum and dad might see him. John Peel’s dispassion made TOTP cool. Mike Read was just the establishment muscling in on the New Wave/Post Punk/Post Ska revolution that had allowed the young and disenfranchised hope and a voice.*

 Now, given the fuss about the song, it would be easy to make a crass throwaway remark about the banana in Mike Read's hand. But I won't. He was just holding a banana when the shot was taken. Instead, I will note that, YES... that IS David Icke on the left staring into space on the look out for reptiles and a turquoise shell suit.

But, seriously, I expected better of a broadsheet than that. I honestly thought that they would have contrived something more believable and, well… I dunno… funny.

Which meant that I had a nagging doubt.

So I checked on YouTube.

I was left speechless.

    

And empty.

Void.

Then, today, I read about Brian Harvey (ex East 17) turning up at Downing Street and attempting to show his maths homework to David Cameron.

I’ve only been gone a month. Come on, people. What are you doing to my country? 

You’re all losing the plot. Wake up!

So. Back to Saudi.

It’s sunny out here, so on Saturday, I fell into my usual habits. A bit of a lie in and a stroll to explore.

The Corniche is the high spot of Al Khobar. Alongside a calm sea, it stretches for mile upon mile. Landscaped gardens allow shade to relax, listen to the waves and watch the locals. On a Friday it heaves with families but Saturdays are a little quieter. It only picks up toward dusk when the temperature begins to drop off, down to 28 or 30C. But a breeze had cooled the coast on Saturday so I ended up walking down to the deserted section of the parade down near Al Khobar harbour.

The Corniche

And this is where I witnessed and – understandably - got spooked by a murder.

A murder of crows.

Friends will know that I like birds. I do. Always have. Since I was just a kid and my mum made me join the Young Ornithologists Club (YOC). As a youth, I learned a great deal and – because I was a sponge – much of what I learned has stayed with me. I’m not a twitcher per se and I don’t generally go out to purposely look for birds nowadays, but I do take an interest and keep my eyes open. Truthfully, I had looked for and noted websites highlighting how Khobar and Dammam are pretty good sites for passing migrants. I had also noted that where I was ending up on Saturday afternoon is very close to one of the spots that they recommend for a quick twitch.

And I saw Hoopoe. Hoopoe are pretty.

Check Out Hoopoe Here!

And here...

And all was good. 

Until I disturbed a dozen or more crows.**

Crows are incredibly intelligent and they are incredibly strong fliers. As a species they regularly demonstrate reasoning and problem solving. As they did on Saturday.

It took me a few moments to comprehend what was happening. I was taking in the view, listening to the sea and generally choosing a place to sit down for a while when I noticed that the birds were using the power of the wind to climb above me, drop down toward me, matching the speed of the wind to hover.

At first, I watched in awe. I even had a chance to take a couple of snaps with my mobile phone. It was incredible, beautiful and fun. But then I realised that they were getting lower and lower and closer and closer to me. And they weren’t interested in signing release papers for me to market and publish my photographs.

They are big birds. Big, bastard birds. 

And they were clearly pissed with me being there and goading one another to take a pot shot at me. As I turned to face them they would slip off into the wind to get behind me. All the time seeming to get closer and closer.

A couple passed less than a foot above me. Swooping down. Hanging in the wind. Very deliberate. It started to get a bit Hitchcock like and for a few moments, I honestly thought that one of them would come in to make contact and inevitably draw blood.

Have you seen their wingspan? Or the size of a crow’s beak? Or their claws? Or noted how their eyes seem to constantly stare at you and weigh you up?

I have. On Saturday, all too closely.

But the thing that was most un-nerving and disorientating was that after the initial uproar when I first spooked them into flight, they fell silent. Ghostly shadows and shapes dancing and taunting me just above and behind my head, trying not to let me face them down.

Murder.

Just when I thought that it was time to run and make an inglorious and undignified retreat, it stopped. As quickly as they started, they lifted into the air and flew away.

I watched on as they moved onto a different, softer target and started dive bombing a group of Herons at the water’s edge as if to restore their pride in themselves and dominion over the other bird species.

It lasted no more than 30-40 seconds, but once I had a chance to think about what might have been, I was damn spooked.

Of course, it could have been worse. Did you know that many of the large gull species defend their territory by shitting out the entire contents of their bowels and stomachs on intruders?

Being a bit spooked by crows is far easier to disguise on the walk back home than a head full of gull shit. 

Small mercies.

 * Note. I am well aware that the end of that paragraph come across a little like Rik out the Young Ones. I never really liked Mike Read and – today – I really quite loathe him. I guess I got a bit carried away.

** Note. To show a few credentials. I refer to them as crows, but in reality, I should be calling them “House Crow” or one of the other variants… “Indian Crow”, Grey Necked Crow”, “Ceylon Crow” or “Colombo Crow”. This is to differentiate them from Carrion Crows, Hooded Crows, Raven or Jackdaw or other European, black crows. See! I know my stuff!!